


Something Stronger

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: Scott McCall wants to go to his ten year reunion, and there's no way Stiles and Lydia Stilinski are going to let him walk into the wolf's den alone.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 36
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So we're all stuck in quarantine and Tyler Posey tweeted about a Teen Wolf reunion and I miss my kids, so this is going to have multiple chapters and I do not know how many but most likely one of them will involve Lydia wearing a very tight dress and feeling fabulous. 
> 
> I didn't edit this but I really love these two fools and this is cheesy because I need cheese. 
> 
> Stay safe, wash your hands, moisturize, buy groceries for elderly and immunocompromised people if you can. Title is from Cornelia Street by Taylor Swift, no one's surprised by this turn of events.

“Lydia, you’re doing it wrong.” 

One glance towards Malia reveals the curve of amusement at her mouth, giving away how much she’s enjoying this. Her kickboxing class is the one place she’s allowed to tell Lydia what to do, but Lydia wishes she wouldn’t milk it so much. She adjusts the braid at the crown of her head before she places her hands on her hips, turning to pout at Malia. 

“And what exactly am I doing wrong this time?” asks Lydia dispassionately. 

“You’re curving your arm too much. It’ll get sore faster if you do it like that. Pull it tight and straight against your body.” 

Lydia tries to hold her arms the way Malia is demonstrating and is irked to find that the next punch she levels at the bag feels far better. Grumpy, she jogs over to the side of the studio to grab her water bottle, preferring to guzzle it down than to watch the smirk on her friend’s face. 

This. This is why she only takes Malia’s class once a week, rather than coming in multiple times. She is too _smart_ to deal with someone she knows telling her what to do. She’ll take instruction from academics, strangers, and the occasional well-meaning civilian who wants to stop her from getting hit by a car when she’s in a fugue state. That’s absolutely it. 

Even so, the rage she’s feeling ends up benefitting her for the rest of the class. Lydia pretends the bag is Malia’s face, punching the smugness out of it until she’s worked up a sheen of sweat across her chest and abdomen to accompany her flushed cheeks. At one point, she manages to forget about her research, forget about the stack of essays she has to grade, forget about the fact that her biannual dinner with her father is coming up, and just sink into what she’s doing. 

By the time the class ends, she feels far more relaxed than she had at the beginning, in addition to having forgiven Malia for all of her previous transgressions. If Lydia can forget about work, that’s the mark of a good workout class, and she’ll give her friend that. Malia definitely found her calling in being a fitness instructor. 

The momentary fondness is ruined when Malia sidles up to her after class, as Lydia is rooting through her bag for her tiny jewelry box. 

“Don’t you love it when I’m right?” she asks, leaning her shoulder against the mirror and crossing her arms over her chest. She’s got such a ridiculously good body that Lydia wants to punch her in the face, just a little, and all of the goodwill that had been swelling in Lydia’s chest crashes down like air being let out of a balloon. 

“Congratulations at being able to do your job,” replies Lydia cuttingly, sounding so much like Stiles that she takes a second to mourn her ability to deliver a comeback without some of his voice in it. 

“I’m just saying,” Malia says, tilting her head to the side, “The mentor has become the mentee.” 

She most certainly knows how much it irks Lydia to be substandard in anything, which is why Lydia narrows her eyes and glares at her as she shoves her engagement ring, then her wedding ring, onto her finger. 

“I really hate it when you get like this.” Lydia pulls on her light jacket and digs in the pocket for her car keys. “See you for breakfast on Tuesday?” 

“You got it,” replies Malia, slapping her ass before she turns around and jogs over to one of her other students. 

Lydia already has her cell phone out, the number dialled, when she gets to her car. She waits until she’s turned it on, hooked her phone up to the bluetooth, and flipped off a guy who tried to cut her off when she was turning out of the lot before she hits the send button. 

“Hello?” 

“Your best friend--” Lydia begins, and Kira lets out a laugh. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve already had two mimosas in preparation for this.” 

“I can’t figure out if it’s just ingrained in my soul to be annoyed with her at all times or if she’s actually that obnoxious.” 

“You love her.” The reminder comes in a fond voice, knowing that Lydia’s fuse is short but her patience is lengthy when it comes to Malia. The annoyance will have faded in a few hours, but Lydia’s capitalizing on it for now. “Why don’t you just stop taking her class?” 

“Because it’s really good,” complains Lydia. “She’s such an asshole that it motivates me to work harder.” 

“There you go then,” Kira says, satisfied. “It’s mutually beneficial, Lydia.” 

“I suppose.” Lydia lets herself grunt out the words as she pulls onto the highway. “How are things in the big apple?” 

“Another couple came in wanting me to do a photoshoot of their dog.” 

“Was it a cute dog?” 

“Obviously it was a cute dog, but come on. How many dogs can a girl take pictures of before she runs out of ideas? Can they at least start having babies so that I have more to work with?” 

“Speaking of which,” Lydia says, “I have a job for you.” 

Kira pauses for a moment. 

“You… have a job for me?” 

“Mhm.” 

Her voice trembles with excitement. “Lydia?” 

“Could you take a bunch of pictures of Chewie next time you’re up here? I just think Stiles would really like that.” 

“Lydia!” Kira responds, laughing. “That may be the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me.” 

“In all seriousness though,” Lydia says, “he could be floating around in space like he’s actually the Chewie from Star Wars.” 

She’s approaching the small house now, the one at the end of the street with the flowers that she’d placed on the front porch and the bench swing that Stiles had spent so much energy trying to put together that Lydia had ended up hiring someone to put it together. 

“I think it’s sweet that you love your husband enough to come up with that idea,” replies Kira. “And no, I will not take pictures of your damn dog.” 

Lydia faux sighs, letting it be as dramatic as possible as she pulls into the driveway and opens the garage door. 

“In my twenty-eight years of life, never have I suffered such a disappointment,” she says. She cuts the engine and jogs down to the mailbox, tucking her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she walks back up the driveway. “And how’s the girlfriend?” 

Kira’s response is warm and happy. “She’s good.” 

“Good,” Lydia replies, kicking open the front door. When she looks up at the scene in front of her, the mail slides clean out of her hands. “Um, Kira. I have to go.” 

Without waiting for a response, she hangs up her phone and closes her eyes, counting to five before she opens them again. When she does, Stiles is still standing in front of her with wide, guilty eyes. He’s wearing pajama bottoms, a white t-shirt with a giant slash through it, oven mitts on both of his hands, toilet paper around his waist, and there’s some odd substance sticking to his nose. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says before Lydia can even open her mouth. She shuts the front door behind herself, locking it to make sure he has the fear of God in him, and turns towards him. 

“This doesn’t look like anything,” Lydia says, gesturing to the mess of toilet paper that’s strewn around the living room. “Explain.” 

It’s actually a little adorable, the way he swallows hard like she’s about to get mad at him, like he doesn’t still have the power to make her knees weak. She’s awful at staying mad at him, which is exactly why she’d married him in the first place, because she had never quite expected to like someone as much as she likes him. 

Though she does wish that the love of her life was less of a dumbass sometimes. 

“I thought it would be funny if Chewie learned how to roll over but then, like, made a skirt for himself out of toilet paper. So, dog training, but make it fashion, you know?” he asks eagerly, and in that moment Lydia so deeply regrets her habit of forcing him to watch Project Runway with her when she’s had a bad day and wants to cuddle while watching mindless television. 

“No,” Lydia replies. “I do _not_ know. I do not know why you think that our barely potty trained puppy would be able to learn how to roll over.” 

“One time he high fived me!” 

“He did not high five you, for the millionth time, he was batting your hand away with his paw because he wanted to get to his food.” 

“You see the world the way you need to see it,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Anyways. I grabbed the dog and the toilet paper, tried to show him how to do on myself first, and then he wouldn’t do it so I tried to roll him into the toilet paper for him, which he fuckin’ hated, actually, and then he started flailing around to get out and ruined my shirt.” 

He ends the last part indignantly, like it’s wholly and completely the dog’s fault and Stiles cannot believe anyone would behave in such a way. Lydia glares at him, forcing all of her annoyance between her brows, but when Stiles shrugs and smiles helplessly, she deflates. She strides up to him and takes his head between her hands, causing him to bend down so that he can loom closer to her. 

“That was a really dumb idea,” she tells him with deep sincerity, and Stiles shrugs. 

“I’m here to entertain.” He smiles as she kisses him, wrapping her arms all the way around his neck and letting herself settle into the warm grip of his hands circling her waist. He hums softly against her lips, low in his throat, and Lydia pulls away to look at the way his mouth is quirked upwards in the early afternoon light. When she catches sight of his nose, she leans forward and kisses it. 

“Honey.” 

“Yeah?” 

“No,” Lydia laughs, smacking her lips. “I mean there’s honey on your nose. Why?” 

“Oh. I thought the dog might like it as a treat.” 

She turns around to grab her bag of makeup wipes out of her bag, gently wrapping her fingers around his chin so that she can hold his head in place. 

“Come down here,” she scolds, tender, and he purposefully bends his knees as quickly and dramatically as he can, letting his arms hang by his side like he’s a rag-doll while she wipes the honey off of his nose. “There.” 

As soon as she pulls back, he wraps an arm around her waist and straightens up, pressing another kiss against her mouth. He walks the two of them over to the couch, Lydia’s feet trailing just above the floor before Stiles falls backwards against the cushions and lets her settle on top of him in a maneuver that definitely wouldn’t have worked a few years back. They’re well practiced at this by now, though, and she knows where to place her knees so that she doesn’t knee him in the stomach so that he doesn’t have to stop kissing her. 

She knows he likes her on top of him like this, adding the security of her weight on his frame, grounding him to the space they’re occupying. Stiles places his hand on her cheek, letting his thumb stroke the apple as he leans in to kiss her deeply. 

“You’re all sweaty,” he mutters as he pulls back, not seeming to care very much as she shrugs out of her jacket. 

“Malia continues to make my life hell in her class,” Lydia replies sincerely, and Stiles’ hands slide down to her ass as he chuckles at the disgruntled expression on her face. He brushes some hair out of her eyes before he goes back to kissing her, leaning upwards so that she doesn’t have to bend down for him. 

She’s in the middle of scraping her teeth against the sensitive skin underneath his ear when his phone starts vibrating on the coffee table, nearly buzzing itself to the floor. This startles Chewie, who still isn’t used to the noise, and he begins barking, forcing Lydia away from her husband. 

“You should get that,” she whispers against his neck, burying her face there for another moment before she has to move. 

“Nah,” replies Stiles. 

“What if it’s your dad?” Lydia challenges. “Or work?” 

“Fine.” He grunts it out as he shifts towards his cell phone, swiping his thumb across the screen with an aggression that the phone probably does not deserve. Stiles glances at the name splashed across the screen before he shoves the phone to his ear. “Tell me if someone’s dead.” 

Oh, so it’s Scott then. 

“Hi,” Lydia adds, leaning forward so that her mouth is by the receiver. Stiles puts the phone on speaker, resting it on his sternum, and places his hands on Lydia’s upper thighs. She sits up so that she’s seated on his stomach, her hands splayed across his chest, staring down at him. 

He’s so gorgeous that she can’t help but run her hand across his forehead and down his cheek. Stiles grins at her, scrunching his face all the way up so that his nose is wrinkled, and she still thinks he’s her favorite person to look at. 

“Hey!” comes Scott’s happy, tinny voice from the speaker. “Are you guys going?” 

“No, Lydia just got in,” Stiles responds, just as Lydia says “Going where?” 

“The reunion!” 

“Shit, One Direction is finally coming back together?” Stiles asks drily. 

“Our ten year, you idiot. The invite came in the mail today.” 

Lydia reluctantly heaves herself off of Stiles, trodding over to the front hall to grab the mail. As Stiles gets off of the couch and approaches her, she rifles through the envelopes, looking for two that match. By the time Stiles has his chin on her shoulder, his arms around her waist, she’s found the one that’s addressed to her. _Dr. Lydia Martin_ it says, and she wrinkles her nose because it’s what she goes by professionally, not personally. 

“Look,” Stiles says, gesturing towards her name. “They’re already in denial.” 

“What’s that?” comes Scott’s voice from the tinny speaker, by Lydia and Stiles ignore him as her fingers work the envelope open. 

It’s a rude awakening, seeing their class graduation photo printed out with _2013!_ emblazoned underneath it in large lettering. Lydia is ten years happier, ten years wiser, and ten years safer, yet she still feels a pang of angst in her stomach at the acknowledgement that she’s twenty-eight years old. She can remember her mother staring at herself in the rear view mirror, distain on her face, before she turned to her daughter and said “Never get old, Lydia,” before dramatically flouncing into the house to pour herself a hefty glass of white wine with an ice cube plopped into it. 

“Can I be your date?” Stiles jokes, causing Lydia to bark out a laugh. 

“Oh sure,” she says, patting his cheek fondly. “I’ll go buy a dress, get a blowout, we’ll do this thing.” 

“Cool!” says Scott brightly. “Do you guys want to get a hotel or are you gonna stay with Stiles’ dad?” 

“Scott,” Stiles says, finally untangling himself from Lydia. “We’re joking. We’re obviously not going.” 

“Why not?” 

“Um,” Lydia responds, “because high school was as close to hell as any of us has ever gotten, barring Stiles, who arguably actually went to hell at one point.” 

“I think I’d refer to it as purgatory,” Stiles reasons. 

Lydia slides one shoulder up. 

“Close enough. As long as you don't forget the fact that I brought you back because I love you.” 

“Guys,” says Scott, and a moment later he’s calling them on Facetime, exposing them unfairly to the earnest expression he’s currently wearing. Lydia squints at the tiny screen and sees that he’s standing outside somewhere, probably in his neighborhood, with a grassy field behind him. “You only get one ten year reunion.” 

“They throw them like every five years, buddy,” Stiles says, patronizing. 

“Yeah, but… I mean, come on. High school was ten years ago. We’re all so much better off now. We kept the town safe. We should _go_.” 

“We should go hang out with a group of people that hates and fears us,” Lydia says flatly. 

“Plus,” adds Stiles, “I’m pretty sure if they see you they’ll try to burn you at the stake.” 

“Guys,” Scott says, undeterred. “Look at yourselves. Lydia has a doctorate. Stiles has a _dog_. You’re married and homeowners and all the stuff we thought we would be too dead to be, back then.” 

“None of those things will change if our former peers don’t know about them.” 

“No, but--” Scott hesitates, searching for the words. “After all this time… don’t you think we deserve this?” 

Lydia looks at Stiles, who is already looking back at her, guilt in his eyes. Two years of marriage and eleven years of being in love with him has granted her the ability to read his expression fairly well. She feels the same way he does-- he doesn’t want to go, but no way are they letting Scott do this on his own. 

“Okay, Scotty,” Stiles says, deflating. “We’ll go to the reunion.” 

“Yeah?” Scott replies brightly. “That’s great, you guys.” 

“Of course it is,” Lydia says, tilting her head to the side. “We’re both delights.” 

Scott laughs. 

“I gotta go,” he says. “I’m gonna go convince Isaac to come back from France for this.” 

Moments later, he signs off of Facetime, leaving Stiles and Lydia staring at the screen of Stiles’ phone, pondering. 

“How does he _always_ convince us to do shit we don’t wanna do?” Stiles asks eventually, bemused. “It’s Disney 2017 all over again and I’m not into it.” 

“It’s because we owe him way too much,” Lydia says distastefully. “Plus his intentions are usually good, which is absolutely ridiculous if you ask me.” 

“Are we seriously doing this?” Stiles asks, turning to face her, his expression stricken. 

“I think he’s going to hold us too it,” sighs Lydia, stepping forward so that she can place her head on his chest and slide her hands up the back of his shirt. “So we’re just going to have to get very, very drunk.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says reluctantly. “Just, like, a lot of alcohol.” 

“Mmmm.” She presses her nose against his shirt and inhales the comforting scent of his detergent and deodorant mixing together. She’s just settling in for a long, comforting hug when Stiles speaks again. 

“Wait,” Stiles says, “the best thing Scott could come up with for me is that I have a dog? You have a PhD, I have a _dog_?” Lydia watches, amused, as he glances down at Chewie, who is currently tuckered out in the corner, one ear flopped over to the wrong side. “I swear to god, Lydia, you married the most boring man on the west coast.” 

“Maybe,” Lydia concedes, grabbing his t-shirt in her fists and standing on her tip-toes to kiss him. “But I think he was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I truly have nothing to offer here, it's just happiness and fluff, but if you want to talk to me I'm at writergirl8 on twitter.

A few weeks ago, had Lydia been asked how she had grown since high school, she would have given an earnest and well-intentioned answer about respecting the value of human life and realizing that the things she had once considered essential were not truly the most important thing. Additionally, she would’ve thrown in a well intended joke about vanity and materialism, which she would end with a light laugh, certain that nobody would call her out on the fact that the heels she was wearing cost a minimum of two hundred dollars. A few weeks ago, Lydia would have thought that her answer was truthful. 

Now she knows that she would’ve been full of shit. 

She’s got two complaining men on either side of her, one of whom has his fingers tangled in hers while the other tries not to look as grumpy as he really is. Neither of them had been too enthusiastic when she had texted the group chat and let them know that they were going to the mall. Malia had refrained from responding, most likely still asleep from her shift at the bar, which is how Lydia had ended up going shopping with her two boys in tow. 

It’s not that they embarrass her, or that they don’t clean up well. It’s just that half of Scott’s jeans are covered in animal fur (and, occasionally, animal drool) and most of his shoes have been chewed up. As for her husband, Stiles dresses the same way he did in high school, and while Lydia doesn’t mind having a plaid button down to peel off of him, she has a feeling Stiles will be more confident if he walks into the viper’s den with that extra boost of confidence. 

Plus, they’d both stopped grumbling when she’d told them that they could go hang out at one of the game stores while she went to Barnes & Noble, so it’s a win-win, as far as Lydia’s concerned. She dreads the day they realize that they don’t have to listen to everything she says because she isn’t the boss of them. 

“Hey, it’s Macy’s!” Stiles says cheerfully, squeezing Lydia’s hand. “The place you fell in love with me.” 

Both Lydia and Scott snort simultaneously, which just eggs Stiles on, and his grin spreads wide across his face. He yammers on as they move through the mall, past every store he wants to go into, and every store Scott wants to go into, until they finally land on a place that Lydia deems suitable for her needs. 

The minute they walk in, she drops Stiles’ hand and squares her chin, her eyes narrowing as she surveys her domain. It only takes a few moments of calculation for Lydia to figure out where the men’s department is, and she lets Scott and Stiles bumble after her as she lifts her chin and strides to the side of the store. A saleslady nearly comes up to her to ask if she can help her find something, but Lydia fully ignores her, letting her heels slam on the tile and echo across the store as she goes to her location. 

“Alright,” she says, handing her purse off to Stiles. She rubs her hands together as she looks around the area, feeling that familiar spark of _I can do this_ that she frequently gets when shopping, working, or arguing with elderly white men. “If I hand an item of clothing to you, it means you have to try it on. Do _not_ wrinkle it. And do not complain if you don’t like it.” Stiles raises his hand. “Yes?” 

“What if I _really_ don’t like it?” 

“Still don’t complain.” 

He raises his hand again and doesn’t wait for her response. 

“What if I have a moral quandary about that particular item of clothing?” 

Lydia quirks an eyebrow. 

“And what sort of moral quandary would that be, darling?” 

He notes the pet name, how it’s lurking dangerously close to genuine annoyance, and backtracks. 

“I mean,” Stiles begins, scrambling, his voice getting quieter “like if it was a team other than the Mets.” 

“And in what version of ‘we’re going shopping for something to wear to the reunion’ do you think I would ask you to wear a t-shirt with a logo on it?” 

Stiles lowers his hand. 

“No further questions.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

They make their way through the store, with Lydia periodically throwing articles of clothing at her boys until Stiles is stumbling under the weight and Scott’s face is lost amidst a neatly balanced pile of button downs. By the time she points them towards the fitting rooms, they’re both so relieved to be able to set the clothes down that they don’t complain, instead dutifully carrying their stack of items into adjacent stalls. 

As Lydia takes a seat on the couch to tap out a few responses to work emails, she hears Scott say something that sounds suspiciously similar to “for Lydia” and almost misses Stiles’ fond “it’s the weirdest coping mechanism she has” in response. 

She considers this for a moment. Is she merely attempting to control any aspect of the reunion that she can so that her brain can organize the evening in a way that is manageable? Is she just doing this to ensure that she’s done everything she can for the night to go off without a hitch, especially given the lack of control that she had felt so intensely during their high school years? Or is she doing this because Stiles and Scott dress like sloppy farmer idiots half the time, and she’d prefer to get a handle on their poor fashion choices before they even have a chance to make them? 

The latter, she decides with satisfaction, and goes back to answering her emails until the boys begin their fashion show for her. 

It finally comes to an end when Stiles finishes his choices first and ends up kneeling on the floor in front of the dressing room hallway as Scott comes out again, holding his phone up with the flashlight on so that Scott has a spotlight. To call the noises he’s making with his mouth _beatboxing_ would be generous, but that’s certainly what he attempts to do while he waves his phone in the air. Scott, Lydia notices, walks with a bit more of a swing to his hips after that. 

She aches with laughter until an employee politely comes over and recommends that they consider the other customers. Lydia graciously agrees, but then flips him off behind his back as he’s walking away, and Stiles’ new peel of laughter sets her off again. They finally settle on something for Scott and then walk up to the front of the store to pay, feeling the delicious ache of an afternoon with their best friends. 

“This is going to be perfect,” Scott says as they make their way through the mall. “Isaac is flying in from France, Kira’s coming in from New York, Derek gave me Cora’s real number and she agreed to come, Malia promised she’d strongly consider strongly considering joining, which is more than I’d hoped for, and Danny said he’d ask Ethan about it.” 

“Um,” says Stiles, voice flat, “why are we pretending to care about Ethan coming?” 

“Because we do care,” Scott coaches, clearly not allowing himself to sound scandalized. 

“Do we even like Ethan?” asks Stiles, “or are we just inviting him because his brother is dead and he has no family?” Lydia thwacks him on the back of the head so that Scott doesn’t have to do it. “Ow!” 

“Remember that whole ‘we don’t leave people behind thing’ that saved your ass plenty of times?” 

She doesn’t really care about Ethan either way, and mostly plans on spending the evening drinking and squeezing Stiles’ hand so tight he loses all feeling in his fingers, but she’s decided to join Scott’s team on this. It’s usually the more morally sound path, and Lydia enjoys pretending to take the high road. 

“I do remember that,” Stiles admits, “but I also remember that I’m really special and of course you saved me, because I’m better than everybody else.” 

Lydia and Scott exchange glances. 

“He’s your best friend,” she says. 

“ _You_ married him,” Scott points out. 

“Touche.” 

When they finally end up at a store that sells video games, Lydia is about to trail off to go to the bookstore, but one look at the light in their eyes makes her decide to stay. Feeling very out of place with her heels and the nordstrom bags she’d insisted on carrying, she follows them into the store to hang back and watch. 

She’s been thinking a lot, lately, about how they’ve changed over the years, and what her life might have been like if they hadn’t lived long enough to grow. She’s watching two grown men pour over video games in a glass case and feels the kind of panging in her heart that comes from the knowledge of how close she’d come to losing this moment, so many years ago. It’s the kind of panging that makes it hard for her to get out of bed sometimes, and which consumes her brain when Stiles crawls beneath the covers with her, covers her shoulders and neck and cheeks with kisses, and holds her until the sun sets on her mood. 

These boys, _her_ boys, are still like little kids sometimes. Their smiles still stretch too wide across their cheeks like they used to when they were clutching backpacks and wearing light-up sneakers. Watching them feels so much like summer to her, like the comfort of endless days and air that settles comfortably onto her skin. She wears her love for them just as comfortably. 

“Okay,” Lydia says, sneaking up behind them and wrapping Stiles’ arm around her waist so that she can tuck herself into his side. “Which ones are you debating over?” 

“That one and that one,” Scott says, pointing while Stiles gently squeezes her hip. “What do you think?” 

They don’t leave the mall until nearly sundown, after Scott and Stiles willingly carry Lydia’s bags while she strolls around Sephora. Stiles buys two whole cups of Auntie Em pretzels and plops one in her mouth while she’s complaining about something that, in hindsight, is unimportant. 

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Lydia asks Scott, because despite the fact that she and Stiles like being alone, when Scott’s over it never feels like there’s an extra person in the house. 

“Sure,” he says, “but I gotta check on the goats first.” 

They make fun of him for that the entire ride over, the fact that there are _goats_ and chickens in his yard, and Stiles plays “One Week” by The Barenaked Ladies three different times because, it seems, he does not have an original joke left in his back pocket for the day. 

“You’re going to have to up your chicken game,” Lydia says to him with total seriousness, to which Stiles agrees with an equal amount of intensity. 

“It’s my duty,” he replies gravely. Lydia kisses his wrist and Scott takes the momentary distraction to steal Stiles’ phone and change the song. 

And really, Lydia thinks as they drive along winding back roads to get to Scott’s house, what is she afraid of? Nothing that happens at their ten year reunion is going to be able to take away what they have. High school is in the past. This is their future. Scott’s going to have thirty-six children and double the amount of animals and Lydia is going to have the career she dreamed of and a marriage that she never could have dreamed up even if she tried. Stiles is going to continue being _Stiles_ , which is exactly the best thing for all of them after they had lost him more than once. 

They’re going to spend the night laughing and drinking and catching up with the pack members that have remained in their lives, which are _good_. Nothing that happens back in Beacon Hills can change this thing they’ve made, and Lydia knows that with the type of fierce certainty that comes from necessity. 

She believes that all the way until they reach Scott’s house, when she sees the all-too familiar sight of Derek Hale leaning against a motorcycle, his features twisted into a heavy frown. 

Anyone else would have the most _obscene_ wrinkles. 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters as he parks the car. Scott’s already halfway out the door, and Lydia jumps out after him, her heart in her throat. 

“What’s up?” calls Scott, clearly trying to keep his voice calm. Derek uncrosses his arms and takes a few steps closer, his lips tensing. 

“Get back in the car,” he says shortly, approaching. 

“Why?” asks Lydia, already knowing the answer. 

“Because there’s been an attack.” 


End file.
